


The Pilgrimage

by Lpandora



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Sasuke-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lpandora/pseuds/Lpandora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sasuke is given a new birth of sight. Sasuke-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

I will save you, Naruto swore then. He was a brutal blaze of warmth that burned fire to ash. The heavens crackled with blood and the earth crumbled under the heaviness of memory.

I will not be saved _,_  said Sasuke. There was nothing of him to save but broken bones for the dogs.

He took hate in one hand. Naruto took love in another. They sped forth, colliding in a storm of promise and fate. But Naruto pushed through the lightning in his hands—pushed him into the light. For an instant, they touched, and were flung to opposite ends of the earth.

Sasuke soared through an endless tide of whiteness. He thought of death, and all that lay beyond.

(t _hen you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free—)_

—and he slammed into a coarse and grainy wall. The brightness cut his eyes. Choking up dust, he tried to blink away the blood, but lost the world to pain.

* * *

He awoke to heat and darkness and wondered if Naruto had thrown him straight to Hell. Every pressure point burned. The ground scratched him like hot sandpaper. Wincing at the soreness in his abdomen, he inhaled, and smelled the cleanness of the desert.

It came to him then that the scorching heat was the midday sun. He blinked—once, thrice—but could not see it. The cloudless sky and slopes of sand rose in his mind like a mirage, but their hazy colors were constructs of memory.

_I'm blind._

A breeze blew hair into his eyes. Grimacing, he raised a slow hand, and brushed away the strands. So his eyeballs still had some feeling. Good. Perhaps they were not unsalvageable. By instinct and experience, however, he knew he would be better served carrying on without this hope than continuing because of it.

( _Caw._ Birds in the darkness.)

Sit  _up_ , he told himself, and dug his palms into the sand. His chest heaved.

Water. He needed water.

Where would he find it? How could he find it? In better days he might have summoned a torrent of rain in cloudless skies with a wave of his hand. He might have carved a well into the ground with bare hands; he might have molded chakra into great, rippling lakes.

I am Uchiha Sasuke, he thought, and clenched the sand.

The arid elements were not kind to blind, broken men. It would make scant difference if he laid in the sand until his thirst buried him or if he dragged his decaying legs across the endless, grainy slopes in hopes of stumbling upon a rare oasis or a kind traveller who had a canteen to spare. Neither choice appealed to him. But—

Neither choice repelled him.

In better days he would not have entertained the kindness of strangers. Now he could only pray for the tides of fortune to bring him assistance. Dry heat bore down on his festering wounds like lashes of a whip.

It was just like Naruto to take his eyes but leave his life.

Without a channel to bleed from, the darkness in his heart swirled around restlessly, drawing his anger and bitterness further into himself. No. Naruto did not save him. No. He hatedhim! He hated. Hated. Hate took him by the throat. Plunged him in the darkness. Choked him, drowned him—

( _Caw._ Wherever the corpse is, there the vultures will gather.)

Panting, he gripped his head as if it were a lifeline. It was dark out there, in there, nothing but darkness dark with nothingness. He was blind and going mad.

But first: water.

(Who provideth for the raven his food?)

He thought of his father then. Of Itachi, of Orochimaru, of Danzo, of Obito. (Of Naruto.) Somewhere along the way he had lost his path and taken another. Now he was lost again, with nothing but the dark desert wind whispering in his ears.

I hate you, he whispered back.

Stretching his head to the black sky, he unleashed a scream that shredded the veins in his throat and shook his soul. Then he stood, trembling, and plodded into the void. Perhaps he would find a path there.

* * *

In the darkness, he walked, and walked, and burned. The air settled into a chill upon his bare skin, and the sand grew cool under his scalded feet.

Something in the air tickled his nose, calling out to the very blood in his veins. He froze and took a second whiff. Smoke. There was fire. Stilling, he held his breath, and willed the wind to help him hear.

Voices. The scrape of rubber soles on sand. People. Not shinobi—too clumsy, too unguarded. Civilians, then. An old one and a young one.

Reaching into the darkness, Sasuke scraped around for remnants of chakra and cast a quiet Henge. In his mind's eye he fashioned long, pale hair, a flat nose, and a stout chin. It would get him by.

Spirits rising with the smoke, he trekked forth. The two voices trickled to silence as the scents grew stronger and the familiar warmth of fire ghosted his face.

Sensing no killing intent, but a strange, silent curiosity, Sasuke dropped his shoulders and sunk to the sand.

Kind travelers, he gritted out, could you spare a drink of water?

Silence. Some shifts of sand later, he felt cool porcelain pressed to his lips. Water had never smelled so sweet. He drank and drank and drank from the bottomless cup until his throat ached and his withered spirit grew strong.

Thank you, he said, and caught his breath.

The cup-bearer said nothing, but pushed something warm and smooth into his hands. He felt around the rim—a bowl—and took a deep breath. Rice gruel. Tipping the bowl past his lips, he reveled in the thick slide of warmth down his throat.

Thank you, he said again, and licked the bowl clean.

The cup-bearer lifted the bowl away. There was silence.

You have had a hard journey, spoke the one who was not the cup-bearer. His voice was deep with age and calm like a lake in spring.

More or less, said Sasuke, thinking of fresh clotting wounds and wounds that bled (bleed) for years.

We are making a journey, too, said the calm voice. We are leaving the desert behind.

Will you join us, young man?

Sasuke fought down the immediate, ingrained impulse to refuse. He was blind, he reasoned. They had water. They were leaving this Godforsaken no-man's land. They had eyes to find the way. He could find his way.

Count me in, he said, and turned to the fire.

* * *

They slept, walked, ate, breathed. Elder navigated through meditative trances like divine clockwork, while Younger took care of the food and the routine prayers. Having never developed an appetite for the spiritual, Sasuke kept silent and listened to the winds.

When I get out of here, he thought with each step, strong and sure. But with each step further he found he could not finish the thought.

In the chill of night he dreamed the death of a dream, and screamed through his awakening.

As Younger pressed a hasty cup of water down his hoarse throat, Elder's voice alighted on his shoulder like a breeze:

Young man, he said, would you care to hear a story?

...A story? said Sasuke. His head spun and rang as if it had been plunged underwater.

Younger put away the cup, and for the first time, sat by Sasuke. Elder's voice ebbed and flowed like the waves of a mantra. Sasuke wondered hazily if he was being drawn into some secret ritual.

There was once a sky, said Elder. Beneath the sky lay a land, and upon the land lay the darkness of war.

Mothers lost sons. Sons lost daughters. Daughters lost themselves. Brother hunted brother (here, Younger shivered). Hope bled from Man in red, forking rivers.

Strife split our people into warring factions. Nobody remembered why we fought, but nobody could stop fighting, lest he found his own demise at the brutal, desperate hands of another.

We strangled our children and buried our mothers.

From this barren, weeping earth, a single man rose. He was a simple man who lived by the outskirts of war in a village of ash. His neighbor had abandoned his two sons to join a band of bloodthirsty rebels. The man himself was childless. He took on the role of the children's caretaker and vowed to carve for them a better world.

They became family.

Soon, their small happiness was shattered. The band of rebels the children's father joined had been exposed as a key player in a violent uprising against the chief warlord of the region. To make an example of the rebels, all members were rounded up for public execution. Their male kin were to be seized and killed for the same.

Now, the man who had taken in the rebel's sons would sooner take his own life than give the two brothers up to the caprices of vengeance. His neighbors did not see him tuck the boys under his arms and flee into the night. But the warlord's soldiers seized them for treason, and hung death sentences over their heads.

Hearing of their plight, the man knew he could not in good conscience let them die. But he had two boys to hide. The soldiers were closing on them with each fretful hour. Before he shut his restless eyes that night, he clenched his teeth, dried his anguished tears, and begged for guidance from powers that had long fled the cesspool of the world.

That night, he dreamed. He woke with his answer.

In the haze of morning sun he embraced the sleepy boys and told them he would be out to handle some business. They were to stay put at all costs. Strapping a sword to his back, he headed for village square, footfalls grim but firm.

Stripped to mean rags that hooded their groin, the criminals lined up before the bloodthirsty crowd gathered at the square. Among them were young men, old men, sick men, lost men. The two boys' father knelt at the head of the line. They had beaten and bruised him and tied a dirty cloth over his eyes because his last wish had been to see the cold red sky.

Kill. Kill. Kill. A mantra of death snaked through the crowd.

Rising with the people's chants, the man leapt between the prisoners and the people. Stop this madness, he cried. How many more of our own sons shall we bury?

The crowd stilled.

Bearing a thousand gazes on his back, he walked to the man who had abandoned his sons, who now knelt before the heavy silence. The low footfalls coming his way struck coldness in his heart. Before he could pull against his chains, two fingers slid under his blindfold and tugged.

He saw light.

You are free, said his savior. I have returned you your freedom.

Now you must return to your sons.

Seize him, cried the chief warlord. The crowd thundered. Swords were drawn and chains were shattered.

Uncle, uncle, came a cry. The two boys had wandered from the hiding place and found him. But this was not a place for children.

Move, he cried. Too late. Spotting their father, the two boys ran forth. One of them tripped, and stumbled into the arms of death.

Brother! cried the other child.

The chief warlord shook the young body off his sword. It rolled to a stop in front of the people.

The man was too stunned to cry.

This cruel end of his surrogate son, this spilling of innocent blood—was this his fault? Was this what everything would come to?

It was one meaningless death in many.

But...

What would it take to make it the last?

He turned to the sky. Then he turned to the war. With the second, screaming boy hauled over his shoulder, the warlord strutted over to the boy's real father, who could do nothing but tremble by the pool of his dead son's blood.

The people watched. Overhead, the clouds rolled fast and red.

Placing the tip of his sword by the broken father's neck, the warlord made to swing, but was halted by a command.

_Stop._

It was the man.

Spare them, he said.

Why? said the warlord.

For each person you spare, he said, you may cut off a piece of my body. He held out his wrists, and a shudder ran through the crowd.

This will be a good show, said the warlord, as he cast a glance over his agitated subjects. Very well, he roared, and let loose a low bellow of laughter.

With a swift swing of a sword, the man lost his hands. The father and his son were released into the crowd.

This is the price of my freedom, thought the father, staring at the blood on his hands.

And so it continued. There were forty rebels. He was cut into forty pieces. Not once did he scream.

Stop it, whispered a young girl, as his feet flew from his legs.

Stop it, said a young man, as stumps of his arm were carved away.

Stop it, cried the people, as his head was cleaved from his lifeless body.

The people led the charge on the warlord and his troops, and the rebels, trembling with invigorated spirit, stayed hot on their heels. They made quick work of the tyrants. It was strange, in retrospect, that they had not ousted him earlier, but they had only known to fight for their lives; they had not known how to fight for something greater.

As the fumes of death evaporated into the red sky, the clouds parted for the first time. The world changed. With the passing of war, a new birth of freedom and a new lease of life lay beneath the golden sky.

But the father never forgot the price of his freedom.

He saw it every day in his younger son. The son who never blamed him, always forgave him, despite all he had lost.

Uncle would have done the same, the boy said.

I must repent, decided the father one day. This is the only way I can begin to pay back my debt of life.

I must leave all of this behind.

Paying last respects to the shrine of his savior, the father distributed his worldly goods, took his last son in hand, and left for the desert.

A pause. The wind filled the chasm of silence. Younger stood up to hand Elder a cup of water. He drank it in like a memory. Sasuke clasped his hands and thought of his father.

At the other end of the desert lies the Village of Mirrors, Elder told him. That is where our path leads.

Sliding his fingers over the planes of his face, Sasuke felt a nose and chin that did not belong to him. Blind men had no use for mirrors.

* * *

Perhaps six days had passed. Perhaps one more. In the darkness, Sasuke stopped counting the sunsets.

How much have I given up? he thought, and tried to forget. In the end there were more things he did not want to count than those he could choose not to.

Naruto had burned his chakra reserves to crisp. Only slow, creeping months of healing would restore them to operational capacity. They were singed and tattered like shredded curtains baring his infirmities for the world to see. Younger's gruel and water were just enough to keep his Henge from flickering into wisps of smoke.

What would he do once he left the desert? He had never given much thought to the comings and goings of blind civilian men. Perhaps if his eyes healed—no. They were far too damaged.

The Great Sharingan had fallen.

Shame gripped him faster and tighter than he could breathe. He was Uchiha Sasuke. S-Rank international criminal. Slayer of Orochimaru. Destroyer of Konoha. Wielder of the Mangekyou Sharingan. Avenger.

But Brother-Mother-Father had left a long time ago. Who was left for him to avenge?

The Uchiha?

His Sharingan was no more. What made him an Uchiha?

His power was no more. What made him a shinobi?

What made him Uchiha Sasuke?

Even the face he wore now was not his own.

What did his true face look like? Did it matter if he could no longer see himself?

Who was Uchiha Sasuke?

The darkness did not falter.

He walked and walked and burned under the sun.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

" _Why is light given to him who is in misery,  
_ _and life to the bitter in soul,  
_ _who long for death, but it comes not,  
_ _and dig for it more than for hidden treasures,  
_ _who rejoice exceedingly  
_ _and are glad when they find the grave?_

_Why is light given to a man whose way is hidden,  
_ _whom God has hedged in?_

_For my sighing comes instead of my bread,  
_ _and my groanings are poured out like water._

_For the thing that I fear comes upon me,  
_ _and what I dread befalls me._

_I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;  
_ _I have no rest, but trouble comes."_

_(Job 3:20-36)_

* * *

 

  
II.

In the restless nights he relived the fires that hollowed his sight. Shadows of color ghosted the curtains of his mind, and he lunged for them, tumbling into pools of grit and sand. Memory was his opiate and madness his nature.

Who is Sasuke? he whispered.

Sinking past embers of dreams, he found a young boy buried beneath the tides of the past. He watched the boy beg for extra helpings of his aunt and uncle's famous senbei treats, watched him turn his feet inwards under his father's stern gaze, watched him stretch his arms towards his smiling older brother. Watched the moon bleed vermillion and blue and gray. Watched a red crack bloom across the red fan marked on the red wall.

There had once been more to Sasuke than Uchiha. There once had been more to Uchiha than Sasuke.

A strange vision disturbed his mind then. From the darkness the silhouette of a youth rippled before him, and took on a strange, golden light. It was the first light he had seen in days and it was _not real, just a dream, I can't see,_  he told himself—but the light beat against him so strongly and he yearned so terribly to taste the stars once more that he touched. The apparition shattered into crude segments of bone and flesh.

His mind's eye turned to his hands. They fell from him in violent tugs, as if an axe had hacked them away. His arms and elbows and feet and thighs began jerking away from him.

STOP, GET AWAY FROM ME, he wanted to scream at his assailant, but his neck—WHERE WAS HIS NECK—

GET AWAY FROM ME!

But no one was there.

* * *

He woke to the clean scent of broth tickling his nose. Tasting the cracks in his lips, he coughed at the salty tang of blood. Though he had walked amid the sands for many days, he remained victim to violent nosebleeds, as his leaf-born body continued to acclimate to the desert air.

Did you have the same dream? Younger asked.

Sasuke heaved himself upright and examined his chakra reserves. They still weren't healing fast enough. This must be hopelessness, he thought.

Locating his water bowl through muscle memory, he swallowed the sweet liquid, and let Elder's prayers dance past his ears. The sun burned further from him each morning. He thought of running back down the path of dreams to catch one last spiteful glimpse of its beams, but knew he could not evade the strange visions of his body being torn into pieces. They provoked a primal fear he had not succumbed to since the night his brother drew his bloodstained sword on him.

He hated himself for succumbing. He hated Itachi for succumbing. He hated Itachi for letting him live, for robbing his soul of its last chance to rest. Now he lived to hate and hated to live. He was tired and drained, but did not know how to give up the fight he should not have had to fight, the only fight he knew how to fight. To give up now—what would that mean?

But—

What was he giving up?

He tried to escape. But in the dark of blindness he could find no place to hide from the bright glare of truth.

Once upon a time he thought he knew black from white. Now he no longer understood what he had pledged his life to.

Who was he supposed to hate?

Why did he hate?

And WHY COULDN'T

HE

STOP?

* * *

 

 

**Interlude**

( _Two boys cool themselves under the shadow of a worn white tent. The boy in frayed monk's robes is tending to a pot over a fire. The other lies a distance away, eyes shut.)_

SASUKE

...

YOUNGER

...

SASUKE

...Do you miss him?

( _The ladle clatters against the pot. A fine shuffle of grains being poured in. The fire hisses.)_

SASUKE

I used to look up to him.

YOUNGER

...

SASUKE

But...

YOUNGER

...

...?

SASUKE

...I still do.

( _The ladle scrapes against the rim of the pot as the young monk stirs. A slow, calm pace._ )

SASUKE

Why?

YOUNGER

...

_(_ SASUKE  _brings a shaky hand over his eyes._ YOUNGER _stirs the pot_. _)_

SASUKE

They've taken alot from you. Haven't they?

(YOUNGER  _keeps stirring.)_

SASUKE

Do you hate them?

YOUNGER

...

SASUKE

Don't you hate them?

YOUNGER

... ...

_(_ SASUKE  _sits up violently.)_

SASUKE

**WHY?**

( _The ladle slows to a rest. Carefully measuring the gruel, the young monk pours out a bowl for his companion.)_

YOUNGER

You should eat that while it's hot.

SASUKE

I don't understand you at all.

YOUNGER

It is something you must experience for yourself.

SASUKE

What?

YOUNGER

You'll understand it then.

SASUKE

What am I supposed to understand?

YOUNGER

You'll understand it then.

SASUKE

...

YOUNGER

I miss him too.

* * *

Everything happens for a reason, said Elder. He scooped a handful of sand and watched the grains seep through his fingers like time.

Have you forgiven yourself? asked Sasuke.

Have you? asked Elder.

Something in Sasuke burned cold. He listened for Younger's light feet crunching through the sand. How could someone who had lost so much remain so at peace? He did not understand it at all. He could not. He would not.

We will arrive at the Land of Mirrors by daybreak, said Elder. We shall part ways then.

Thank you, Sasuke was prepared to say, when a shift in the air stiffened the hairs on his neck.

Killing intent.

Coming right at them.

Look out! Sasuke yelled. He heard the terrible sound of blade piercing flesh, and the choked gargle of blood spilling from Younger's throat.

One down, purred the assailant.

All his shinobi instincts came back to him in that instant. He leapt before a frantic Elder and crouched low in his preparatory stance.

The blind little boy thinks he can fight! chortled the assailant. Behind him an oily cloud of laughter rose from his accomplices.

Sasuke found the man's breath with his ears, and lunged. The man laughed again and glided through the volley of fists and knees like an eel in water.

He's fast, thought Sasuke. A string of kunai soared past his ear, too swift for him to deflect, and lodged itself in Elder with a sick thud.

Sasuke swung, punch, and kicked with the brutality of a wild boar. Finally, he landed an elbow in the man's stomach, disarming him long enough to grab his neck, flip him over, and snap his neck with a twist of the arm. Dropping the body, he listened close for the other assailants, but only heard the panicked shuffle of feet retreating into the distance.

Do not give chase, said Elder.

Look what they did! Sasuke snarled. Look what they did to your  _son!_

Your _family!_

He did not understand these people at all. How could they just  _let_  something like that go?

_(Itachi—)_

But he lowered his arms and made for the spot Younger had fallen. Elder sat there, wheezing slowly. Sasuke knelt down and smelled the blood in his breath.

They wounded you too, he said. Anger and a strange fear darkened his voice.

I am an old man, said Elder.

But  _he_ was not! shouted Sasuke. His trembling fingers reached down, meeting a sticky pool of blood and sand that had collected under Younger's prone form. He was no stranger to death but felt shaken by his companion's sudden passing. Younger had left and taken the secrets to his peace with him.

Lay me down, young one, murmured Elder.

Sasuke bit his lip and guided the old man onto the cool night sand. Come morning the vultures would rise with the sun. He would walk alone once more. It was fine, he told himself, it was the path he had chosen for himself—

Was it?

A flash of golden hair and laughter rose in the back of his mind so suddenly that he choked it back down the darkness.

It has been a wonderful journey, whispered Elder, his words scattering in the breeze.

Take my eyes, young man.

Sasuke started.

What? he said.

Take them, said Elder. I have long outlived their purpose. But you still have much to see, my boy. Take them and use them well.

Sasuke found his heart rooted to the ground. He remembered the wetness of flesh and blood as he scraped away Itachi's eyes and made them his own. He did not understand the price of his sight then. But this stranger and his son had been so kind to him, so willing to sacrifice for him, just as his brother had. They were only strangers. It confused him and overwhelmed him.

What is the price of my eyes? thought Sasuke, as he peered into the trembling darkness.

I—, he began to say, and swallowed.

Take them, urged Elder.

I—

Elder coughed then, a terrible symphony of phlegm and blood and ash. When he was done, he breathed his last words.

You asked me if I forgave myself, whispered Elder, voice trembling with blood and emotion.

I did, said Sasuke.

But that was not it, my boy, said Elder. You see, if  _I_  can be forgiven...

...then you can, too.

Resting his hand over his son's, he stared into the unbreakable line of sky and star until he saw no more.

In his unbidden sobs, Sasuke tasted an awakening, and reached for a new birth of sight.

* * *

They felt...different, he decided. Not like Sharingan. But he had only begun to understand the value of this man's ordinary eyes.

Kneeling one last time by the sand-graves of his two companions, he secured the bandage around his eyes, and laid his head to rest.

In the tumultuous dream that followed he saw his body being hacked into pieces once more. This time, however, he felt not afraid. Watching the darkness swallow the last shreds of his past, he saw a dazzling vision of himself rise before his mind's eye, reborn and whole.

I was Uchiha Sasuke, he thought.

He opened his eyes and saw the sun.

* * *

_TBC_


End file.
